


need the crack of a whip (need some blood in the cut)

by chaoticspaces



Series: blood in the cut [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: BDSM, Blood, Bondage, F/F, Grieving, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so bad at tagging uhhhhhh, Pining, STAY TUNED TO FIND OUT - Freeform, Self-Flagellation, Whipping, basically it's kinky but not explicit LIKE THAT, blatant misuse of ki, for now, is it Mutual?, like it's not porn but it is, masochist!Yasha, mind-sharing, not really sadist!Beau so much as facilitator!Beau, oh god..., pining for WHOM?, really I'm just soft for these two gays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:09:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25372171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticspaces/pseuds/chaoticspaces
Summary: Moonlight reappeared and silvered Yasha’s hair. Beau pretended not to hear how her voice trembled, how her breath hitched. Her fingers ached to smooth over Yasha’s broken shoulders, but these hands only ever knew how to hurt fragile things.“Why like this?” Beau prompted, gently, when she went quiet again.Yasha swallowed. A blue spark snapped by her temple, drawn to her earrings.  “Pain is the purest form of penance. My tribe and my temple both believe that to be purified, you first have to be punished.”
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett/Yasha, implied Jester Lavorre/Beauregard Lionett, maybe Jester Lavorre/Beauregard Lionett/Yasha if you squint... for now
Series: blood in the cut [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1842271
Comments: 15
Kudos: 120





	need the crack of a whip (need some blood in the cut)

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone. this has been in my drafts since January, but uh, well... the world had other plans. finally managed to pull this thing together despite being like 20 episodes behind. this was written before we had canonical proof that Yasha ONLY wears pants, so. I didn't want to go back and change it.
> 
> Post 2x89. Beau walks in on a ritual she wasn't aware existed, and winds up way over her head. But she'll do anything for her friends... and even more than that for Yasha.

They’d been back a while and Beau couldn’t get comfortable.

She curled her hands around her latest drink, sipped it to get the sour taste out of her mouth. It didn’t work. Her knuckles were still sore, chapped behind her fistwraps, the lateness of the night doing little to soothe the pains in her body. Caduceus had healed her but the phantom of her wounds remained as they always did.

She touched her breastbone – puckered pink, jagged from where Yasha’s blade pinned her to the floor.

Beau licked her lips. Only a handful of other patrons were awake, bleary-eyed and quiet, nursing a lone tankard. Moonlight streamed into the cottage foyer through the set of wide windows, spilling onto the floor and up the stairs like a river running upstream. Beau stretched her legs, the fabric of her pants whispering, the shadow of her body slicing the light in half. Her tattoo itched where the full moon licked it.

Most of her companions had spread out over a few tables. Caleb bent over papers with Nott on his shoulder, Caduceus bubbled a new pot of tea, and Fjord—Fjord was murmuring with Jester, their heads close together. He said something and she giggled and Beau’s chest ached in a way that didn’t involve a sword.

It was fine. They were alive and together again and that’s all that mattered. Beau tightened her grip on her cup and pretended that Caduceus didn’t look up, taking another drink and letting it burn.

Yasha went to bed some time ago. Covered in blood and paint, she’d quietly excused herself the moment they were back at the cottage. They’d only had her back for a few days, but already her absence was a six-foot hole that got larger the longer she was gone. It was easier to ignore now that she was safe, upstairs instead of missing – instead of _taken_ – but…

Beau couldn’t shake the darkness in Yasha’s eyes. It followed her through the night, through her drinks, through their parade into Rexxentrum with stupid hats. She wasn’t an idiot; even though Yasha was freed, she had a long way to go until she started to heal. There were too many wounds, festering and raw after months kept open, and Beau wasn’t sure they’d ever mend completely.

From what they’d seen at the Stone Coffin, Yasha’s grin bloody as she hit the floor, she didn’t know if they could.

It wasn’t like Beau was watching her. _It wasn’t_ , she insisted, even as she glanced upstairs again. Not like that. She just… didn’t know how to talk to her. Yasha had been gone for a long time and being around her was like relearning a language she hadn’t spoken in a while. And besides, what was there to say? How was being mind controlled? Can you sleep at night? Do you remember all those people you killed?

( ** _My_** _people,_ said the tiny part of Beau’s brain that she couldn’t shut off, the one that always got her into trouble. _Do you remember my people that you put in the ground?_ )

Fjord put his tankard down. “You alright, Beau?”

Beau snatched her fingers away from her breastbone. It burned. ~~~~

“Yeah,” she said, harsher than she’d like. “Just thinkin’.”

“Uh oh,” he smirked. Beau scowled.

“Does it hurt?” Jester asked, leaning on Beau’s side of the table. Her bare shoulders sparkled. “Do you need more healing?”

_Not that kind of healing._

“S’fine,” Beau forced a smile to her face. “Kinda tender, y’know? It’ll fade.”

Jester grinned in that way she did, all teeth but still warm. “You know you don’t have to pretend and be all stoic, right? You could just be like ‘ _oh, Jester, it hurts so bad!’_ and I’ll totally fix it for you.”

“I think it’s the memory that hurts more,” Caduceus murmured from behind his cup. “Nothing fixes that except time.”

Beau nodded. “Seriously, I’m okay. Just tired.”

Fjord’s tusks clinked against his tankard. “You did go a little hard against that old man.”

“I dunno, I’m not used to downtime.” Another sip. Beau peered into her drink to avoid eye contact. “I keep thinkin’ everyone we fight is trying to kill us. It’s hard to turn that off.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Caduceus stirred his tea carefully, the spoon not touching the rim. “I think we’re all just a little on edge. Nothing some meditation and a good night’s sleep can’t fix.”

Beau opened her mouth, some snide comment about inner peace halfway formulated, but Jester’s tail brushed Fjord’s wrist and the words turned to ash on Beau’s tongue.

She stood up abruptly. Her chair scraped along the wooden floor, jolting several patrons from their stupor. Beau drained her tankard with one long swallow and put it down harder than necessary. “I’m going to bed.”

“Goodnight Beaaaaau,” Jester sung, cheeks dimpling. “Sleep well! I’ll be up soon, okay?”

“Take your time,” Beau muttered. Moonlight splashed onto her bare shoulders like a burn. She took the stairs two at a time, eager to escape and wishing with every step that she’d just taken that solo room so she could wallow without waking Yasha. Maybe she could wrap herself in the blankets and pretend that she was alone?

Beau crested the second floor and stopped, inhaling shakily. This was ridiculous – _she_ was ridiculous. She stood in the darkness for a few moments, the barest whisper of music tickling her ears, muffled and surreal as she held her breath until the burning in her chest died away.

Maybe Caduceus was right… she just needed some sleep.

Beau exhaled slowly. She palmed the doorknob to their room in the way she’d seen Nott do, slick and silent, opening the door without a sound. Her bed was the furthest from the hallway, but if she avoided that one squeaky board she could slip right past Yasha without her noticing.

Except—Yasha wasn’t asleep.

Her massive body knelt, nearly prostrate, in the center of the room. Yasha’s broad back was completely bare, hair fluttering across her shoulders like living shadows as the cold winds poured in from the open window. Her naked skin glittered as it caught the moonlight; ethereal and unearthly together, as milky as the quartz that grew in Kamordah’s volcanic crags. ~~~~

Beau froze in the doorway. Yasha made no sign she noticed Beau’s presence, powerful legs folded underneath her, shadows pooling in the divots of her solid musculature. Without her furs and leathers, bent down and curled in, she looked… small. It wasn’t something Beau was used to associating with her.

Energy crackled at the nape of her neck, white-blue sparks manifesting at the ends of her braids and behind her ears. Yasha’s shoulders drooped, drawn into herself, her thickly-muscled arms braced against the floor. Light dripped off her back like liquid, painted on. Yasha practically glowed in the half-dark and Beau couldn’t help but stare.

As Yasha moved, the Stormlord’s pendant glinted around her wrist. His presence seeped in every corner of the room, his voice carried in every howl that swept the city and rattled the windowpanes. Yasha’s head tipped back to better hear the communion in his call – Beau swallowed and tasted ozone.

There were no clouds tonight, but the air hung thick with static. Beau knew little about the gods but knew enough about sacrament to know it should be taken alone. Her fingers twitched on the knob, itching to shut it again, but something made her stay.

Lightning broke over Rexxentrum’s clear skies and Yasha’s arm snapped up. Her pendant’s chain, longer than Beau was tall, unraveled unseen from her fist. In a motion so quick Beau nearly missed it – saying something, because Beau rarely missed anything these days – a stinging stripe bloomed over Yasha’s bare back.

Yasha arched into it without a sound. The impact was quiet for how much damage it dealt, barely a moment wasted before spooling it back into her hands. A dark, narrow line cut across her pale skin, overlapping a dozen others. They raked down her back like claws.

The chain rattled as Yasha adjusted her grip for another strike. Sure, steady. Practiced. Beau’s heart lurched in her throat.

This wasn’t her place. It wasn’t, she shouldn’t, but—

“Wait,” she whispered, so soft she barely heard herself speak.

Yasha stiffened. Her elbow froze, halfway cocked. Beau wished she could eat the sound as it came from her mouth but there was no going back now; her heartbeat thrummed in her ears, under her breastbone, in the hollow of her throat. Beau’d never been scared of Yasha, not even when she broke her open and split her apart, but here she had to curl her hands into fists to stop them from trembling. ~~~~

They stayed there for a second. Then two. Three. Beau’s tongue tangled on everything she wanted to say, everything she couldn’t. Nothing felt good enough.

“I—” Thunder boomed and drowned her out. Beau’s fingernails bit into the doorframe, her shoulders angling forward. This liminal space they found themselves in was fragile, prone to breaking if she stepped an inch too far, and Beau was never good at leaving boundaries alone.

“D’you—” Beau’s voice cracked on the first try. Yasha flinched, almost unnoticeable. “Uh, d’you—mind if—if I come in?”

After a long moment, Yasha finally exhaled. Her spine bent forward as it unlocked.

“I suppose there’s no point in hiding.”

“… is that—”

“Come inside, Beauregard.”

Beau shut the door. The click felt final, like a cell locking into place. Yasha’s fingers opened and closed and the sound of her nails on the wood was the least distressing thing in the room.

Wind moaned to fill the quiet. Yasha shifted, the stripes on her back writhing as she did. A hint of dried blood disappeared into the waistband of her pants.

“You have questions,” Yasha said, a statement rather than an inquiry. Her face tilted so Beau could see the curl of her eyebrow, drawn down.

“I—yeah.” Beau licked her lips. “But I don’t—I mean—I don’t wanna make you… uncomfortable. If you aren’t, like, ready.”

“It is too late for that.”

They both winced. Beau blinked, playing it back. “Was that—"

Yasha sighed, the rigid set to her shoulders falling in once again. “—a joke, yes.”

“You should work on your delivery.”

“I know.”

Moonlight pooled in the hollows of Yasha’s collar. It highlighted her face from underneath, turned her jaw into a razored line. Shadows fell across her chest like shackles.

Beau listened to the thud of her own heartbeat, so very loud, and wondered if Yasha could hear it too.

“Why?” Beau asked eventually. She chewed on the word like glass, stinging her mouth as it came out. The one thing Beau was really good at – better than fighting, causing trouble, being a disappointment – was digging. She’d always been curious and ready to unravel secrets, no matter the grief it brought her, fingertips itching to pick at stitches and threads until she peered behind the tapestry into the ugly truth it hid. It was a fault that grew into a fissure because as much as she loved digging, she was shit at asking and those two things often came together.

Yasha paused for a second too long and more words began to pour from Beau without her consent. “I mean—I’m not judging you. Or anything. Honestly. And if you don’t want to talk about it I can just, um, go.”

A flicker of a smile formed on Yasha’s mouth. “Are _you_ uncomfortable?”

“I’m not—that’s not it!” Beau blurted, a little bit too much of that trademark aggression. She sucked air through her teeth. “It’s not. I know you—you’ve been through a lot. We all have, but, um… sometimes it helps to talk about it, or whatever. We’re friends.”

Yasha picked at the fabric of her pants. “We are?”

“Of course we are.” Indignant now, knee-jerk and loud. Beau edged around to hover in Yasha’s peripheral. “We didn’t chase you halfway ‘cross Wildemount just because you owed Fjord some money.”

“It wasn’t because I killed your people?”

If Beau closed her eyes, she could still see the bloodstains on the marble floors she had to polish every morning before breakfast. She wasn’t there in time to help lay them to rest and it sat like a stone in her throat.

“We’re a team,” Beau sidestepped, graceful as ever, “and that includes you.”

Yasha stayed still for a long time. Beau could see the very corner of her purple eye, bright like the flowers Nott had secretly been keeping for her, fixed on the horizon. Clouds passed over the moon and the darkness that shrouded her face was deep enough to drown in.

“I… have to atone. For what I’ve done.” Her voice was small, soft. Hurt laced each letter like sewn in.

“You heard Jester.” Beau wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince. Her chest throbbed. “It might’ve been your body, but it wasn’t you _._ ”

“It doesn’t matter.” Yasha’s hands clenched. “The body and the soul exist together, in the same place. They influence each other. I know this better—better than most.”

Shadows bent around her, black feathers down her back. Her head bowed. “And this body… it has done so much wrong.”

Moonlight reappeared and silvered Yasha’s hair. Beau pretended not to hear how her voice trembled, how her breath hitched. Her fingers ached to smooth over Yasha’s broken shoulders, but these hands only ever knew how to hurt fragile things.

“Why like this?” Beau prompted, gently, when she went quiet again.

Yasha swallowed. A blue spark snapped by her temple, drawn to her earrings. “Pain is the purest form of penance. My tribe and my temple both believe that to be purified, you first have to be punished.”

“Is that…” Beau wiped her sweaty palms on her thighs, “is that why you let that woman beat the shit out of you?”

“Maybe.”

Yasha’s gaze slid away. She always was a terrible liar.

Beau chose not to pick at that wound, opting instead to inch into the room. Her foot knocked the bed and she sat on the post furthest away from the window. Yasha didn’t move, but her lilac eye returned to fix on Beau attentively.

“Well,” Beau hummed, rolling each word thoughtfully, tasting it for intent before letting it be heard, “does it help?”

“Does it—” Yasha cut herself off with a frown. She opened her mouth once, closed it, and then opened it again, like no one had asked her what she thought before. Beau could relate. “I don’t understand. This is what I have to do.”

“I get that. But think about yourself, not what anyone else is telling you. This. The Stone Coffin. Does it help you feel better?”

Wind whistled mournfully through the empty streets. Yasha stared at Beau like she could see into her, see _through_ her, breaking her open like she did in the Cathedral to peer at her softest parts. Beau met her gaze, thankful for the blackness that draped her in crushed velvet and hid the worst of her flush.

She never remembered that Yasha could see in the dark.

“It’s not… enough.” Yasha said, finally, winding the chain around her forearm. The metal dug red lines into her skin. “It doesn’t hurt enough. Nothing does.”

Nothing ever would – they both knew that. Despite her guilty misgivings, Beau ached for her, all too familiar with the anguish of a wound cut to stay open. Beau turned her pain into anger into armour, fistfights and drinking by stolen firelight, but not everyone weaponized their hurt so brazenly like she did. Not everyone could. It took years for Beau to master it and sometimes she still cut herself on the jagged edges.

But Beau… Beau was beginning to learn that she didn’t have to bleed all the time. That people – some people, the right people – could take that pain and turn it softer, kinder on that raw, exposed nerve it loved to rub. Caleb and Jester and Fjord and Caduceus and even Nott, now, all of them taking turns tending to her hurt, but Yasha—Yasha suffered like she did everything else: in solitude, in silence; and Beau couldn’t bear to let her. Not when she knew how miserable the burden could be alone.

“Can I…” Beau exhaled through her dry, tacky mouth. “Can I help?”

Yasha paled, almost translucent in the moonlight that lit her up from the inside, backlighting her veins and vessels. “I could never ask you to do that, Beau.” 

“You’re not asking, I’m offering. Listen, Yash—” Beau finally circled around to sit on the bed by Yasha’s side. Her foot rested an inch from Yasha’s knee – close, but not quite touching. “I’m not gonna pretend I can understand what you’ve been through. What, I’m sure, you’re still goin’ through. I won’t lie to you and say that I’ve completely, uh, _processed_ everything either, but we— … I care about you. You’re our family. And if this is what you need, well, I wanna help.”

Beau rubbed a sheepish hand up the back of her scalp. Her tattoo pulsed, a shallow heartbeat. “If you want me, ‘course.”

Yasha’s leg sagged, the outside of her thigh leaning hard against Beau’s knee. Another pop of electricity burst between them like a firecracker. “I always want you, Beau,” she said, so soft and sad it stood the hair of Beau’s arms on end. These months away made her forget Yasha’s simple, brutal honesty, how easily it knocked her off-balance.

“I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

Yasha’s gaze drifted up to the shadowed dip of Beau’s breastbone. It ached when she paid it attention, rousing Obann’s forsaken ghost.

“I hurt you,” Yasha whispered. “All of you, I know, but… I can still feel your body on my blade. Your blood on my face.”

Yasha shifted on her knees to align their bodies together. Beau barely dared to breathe, Yasha’s thighs knocking the inside of Beau’s shins, her bulk edging Beau’s legs apart. A reflexive bolt of heat shot through her spine before she could fight it.

Beau had dreamed of this, more than once, but never knew it would come at such a price.

Yasha’s right hand unwound from the chain. It hovered between them, brushing up against the elaborate brocade of Beau’s expositor robes. There was still blood under her nails.

“I thought you were dead,” Yasha murmured, grief warping that flat, even tone of hers, “and I wanted to die, too.”

Beau let out a deep, shaky sigh. Her brain was filled up by how close Yasha was, how heavy her weight was against her thighs and how wet her eyes were in the dark. Yasha’s ragged breath blew out over Beau’s body and made her boil in her own clothes.

If she backed out now, no one would fault her: Yasha least of all. But this… it wasn’t about her. Not right now.

( _She should hurt, too_ , said that small, spiteful voice that still felt the blade, but Beau knew better than to listen. Yasha hadn’t stopped hurting since long before Obann stole her away.)

So Beau instead slowly leaned back onto her elbows. Her torso lengthened, head tipped back to expose her throat and the barest hints of her collar. Her diaphragm, split by that ugly pink line, peeked out under her chestwraps.

An invitation.

Yasha’s knuckles grazed her bare skin and static danced in the minute space between them. Her hand – cool, firm, gentler than Beau expected – laid on Beau’s tense abdomen. They sat there for a moment, Yasha’s fingers spreading in time with Beau’s ribcage, her nails scraping the misshapen bottom of her scar and sending shockwaves through every inch of her.

“Yasha,” Beau breathed, if only to say her name. She circled her hands around Yasha’s wrist, a gentle shackle, holding even as Yasha flinched at the contact. 

Beau dragged Yasha’s hand under her chestwraps. Her massive palm wedged between Beau’s breasts, the meat of her fist where the wound sat widest. Yasha froze on the floor, singularly focused her own hand disappearing into Beau’s clothing. Beau could feel her fingers tremble from where they were joined.

“Yasha,” she said again, her mouth forming each syllable with care. “Look at me.”

She did, hesitant, like she was kept in the dark for so long and Beau was the new dawn.

“Do you feel that?” Beau asked. She pressed herself further into Yasha’s touch until Yasha cupped Beau’s hammering heart in her hand.

“I…”

“Do you?”

Yasha swallowed. Her head dipped, hair brushing Beau’s knees. “Yes.”

Beau’s heartbeat pulsed through the both of them. Liquid, loud _._ It should’ve shook the walls and the floor with how deeply Beau’s bones were rattling. Yasha’s middle finger pressed into the hollow of Beau’s quivering throat.

“I’m not dead,” Beau said fiercely, earnestly, her words buzzing through Yasha’s open palm. “And yeah, fine, there’s definitely still some skeletons in the closet we’re gonna have to work through or whatever. But I’m—I’m alive and here and I’ll be okay, and it’s all ‘cause of you.”

“Beau—” Yasha choked out, the word halfway strangled between a plea and a prayer.

“I know what you did,” Beau continued, keeping Yasha’s arm pinned through her half-hearted attempt to pull away. “I know you kept me safe from Obann. I know you took that hit for me.”

“But that doesn’t—”

“Doesn’t what? Doesn’t make up for it? Doesn’t change the fact you nearly killed me?” Beau’s nails bit into Yasha’s wrist. “Maybe it doesn’t, but then what does? What counts as enough? When are you gonna be forgiven?”

“I don’t know!”

Shadows burst behind Yasha’s bare back. They ate the moon, licking over her skin and giving her silhouette wings. “I don’t know,” she repeated, quieter. Yasha pressed her eyes into the swell of her outstretched arm to hide her face.

_Too aggressive, dumbass. S’all about language._

Light leaked back into the room. Yasha’s other hand, nails short and blunt, wrapped around her knee hard enough to bruise. Beau’s thoughts scattered like ashes upon contact – risen again on the draft of Yasha’s wet, wavering sigh.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Beau softened. Yasha’s skin gleamed silver, caught aflame, almost polished in that ethereal light that Yasha simply existed in and between. “I dunno either, but that’s cool. We can figure it out together. That’s—that’s what family is for, right?”

“Oh, Beau,” Yasha sighed again, the edges of it lifting like a song. “Are you sure?”

“Totally.” Beau grinned, sharp at all the right corners, the slant to her eyes provocative but not unkind. “I’m gonna look so hot with a whip.”

Yasha laughed. Loud, abrupt, snatched from her chest in the night. It rolled through Beau like thunder, every nerve buzzing with the promise of rain.

She’d forgotten what it sounded like.

A soft, warm light shone suddenly through the gaps in Beau’s chest wrapping. It bloomed where they connected, Yasha’s hand a heavy weight that sunk liquid heat through Beau’s sternum and softened the scar tissue there. She arched into it, just a tiny bit, as it crept up her neck and made her tattoo gleam. It was —

— bruised and beaten and near-broken in the Cathedral, cracked open and unable to breath —

–gone as quickly as it came. Beau blinked, a little dazed, radiant energy still clinging to the dip of her clavicle and the long column of her throat. “Hey, what gives?”

“I’m—I’m sorry.” Yasha yanked her hand away. Beau followed an inch, already cold. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“No, it’s… that’s fine. It was, uh. Nice.” Beau rubbed at her breastbone, oversensitive. “Really.”

They disentangled themselves like guilty lovers in a sunrise. Beau’s body burned in all the places she used to be. Yasha sat up into the light again, cascading over her naked chest, the flush there staining her dark. Scars that Beau didn’t remember tattooed most of Yasha’s bared skin. Not that she knew a lot of Yasha’s body, but… her eyes followed the savage crescent between Yasha’s shoulder and neck, puckering the flesh there like dozens of teeth all the way down to her breast. Some new additions were hard to miss.

Beau’s gaze slid immediately to the window. “D’you, uh,” she cleared her throat, “wanna get dressed? I’ll just _borrow_ something while I wait.”

Yasha’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

“It means we need a better whip.” Beau glanced back at her out of the corner of her eye, the silhouette she cut against the bright night sky. “No offense, but you’re super jacked.”

“That is not offensive.”

“Oh.” Beau hummed. “I guess not.”

* * *

It really started to set in when Beau left Fjord and Caduceus’ room, Fjord’s worm-wrangling whip in her sweaty palm. She stalked down the Cottage’s second-floor hallway, the shadows shifting different now that it was later, the moon not so bright. Wisps of clouds began to gather in the previously clear sky; Beau wondered how much of that was their fault. How much of the coming storm would be theirs, too.

Beau’s stomach swooped. Okay, maybe don’t think about that. Think about something neutral instead. Something pleasant. Like… Caleb when he got caught in the rain. Or the way Jester always looked when you gave her a pastry, nose scrunched and fangs on full display. Or the satisfaction when Obann went down for good—oh wait, she was unconscious and didn’t see that, but she _did_ see Yasha tear off his wings with her bare hands, bloody and bruised just like Beau was about to make her—

“No!” Beau raked her hands through her fuzzy undercut. “I explicitly said _not_ to think about that!”

But how could she not? Here she was, skulking in the dark like some criminal (ignoring the fact that she was, kinda, if you squinted and looked sideways), about to go sneaking off with her friend who could be a mass murderer depending on who you asked. And to do what? Whip her? Tie her up? Say mean things to her and demand her to repent? Beau had never been penitent for anything in her fucking life, and now she was expected to sling deliverance like it was some shitty wine in a backalley bar?

(Well, that’s a lie. She regretted a few things, felt guilty for fewer. She and Yasha traded some of these back and forth though they’d never admit to it; crimson eyes under a rickety cart at midnight.)

Fjord’s whip bit accusingly into her forearm. Beau sighed, leaning against the wall of their room. It was—she wasn’t—she wasn’t scared. She _wasn’t_ , she insisted to her traitor heart, _bang bang bang_ on her healing breastbone. Someone knocking, desperate to get out. Or in?

She wasn’t scared but she was… anxious? Unsettled? Beau’s bones felt too big, itching in her joints, threatening to break the skin. Her borrowed whip hung heavy and rasped at her flesh and soon she’d use it to split Yasha open like she had done to Beau.

Except this time no-one was making them hurt their friends... Beau was doing that all by herself.

And that’s—that was it, wasn’t it? The root of this fucked up cycle that circled between them all, their trauma a vulture that refused to leave a corpse. They’d danced this dance so many times; Nott’s bolts and Caleb’s fire and Yasha’s sword, weaving apologies into the wounds they created after the battle was over, and now that they finally could shape their own future it decided to play back on itself again until it looked like the past.

But it wasn’t, Beau reminded herself. It couldn’t. Not when Yasha was still here and Mollymauk was still gone. Not when they continued to collect scars, new pain to overlap the old.

Didn’t mean it didn’t sit wrong in her chest, taking up too much space. Didn’t mean she had no fucking clue what she was doing. This was—it wasn’t—okay. Beau was in over her head. She wasn’t too proud to admit, but she _was_ too stubborn to back down. That was—it was just how it was. Your friend asks you for help and you answer. It was what kept their group alive for so long, what kept their ragged band of mercenaries afloat when so many sunk to the bottom. Why they were here, now, about to broker an uneasy peace between two nations that had no interest in finding common ground.

Now _that_ was a topic Beau had no problem ignoring until morning.

“Hey,” Beau muttered. She rapped her knuckles lightly on the door. “It’s me. Are you, like, decent?”

“I would like to think I am decent at a few things.”

“Uh,” Beau added lamely, stepping into the room. Yasha stood at the window with her boots on and cloak wrapped tightly around her bare shoulders. It must’ve stung like a bitch.

Yasha’s torso tilted half a fraction towards Beau. “That was—”

“—a joke, yeah, I got it this time. Two in one night?”

“What can I say?” She reached up to scratch under her braids, cloak splitting open to reveal the pale flesh of her flank. “I’m on a run.”

“A—” Beau’s eyes flickered up from the chiseled curl of Yasha’s hipbone. “What?”

“You know, that expression? When you are doing something well, but more than once?”

“A roll?”

Yasha frowned. She turned to Beau fully now, nearly whacking the hilt of her greatsword on the windowsill. “I believe running is faster than rolling, though. For me. You are very fast no matter how you… roll.”

Beau didn’t bite down on the laughter fast enough. It burbled up her throat and out her mouth like a well overfull, fluid as it spilled around them. Yasha’s brow smoothed over into a perplexed smile.

“No, that’s not—” Beau grinned in the way only her found family could bring out of her; warm, wide, only a sliver of teeth but still kind. “I know I’ve said it before, but I’m glad you’re back.”

 _I missed you,_ she nearly said, but that one got caught on the barbs of her tongue. Beau swallowed it down like it was a secret. (Was it really? Did it have to be?)

Yasha’s eyes softened. “Thank you, Beau,” she said it quietly, acknowledging the words in between.

“Whatever.” Under Beau’s collar suddenly felt scorching hot. “Are we ready to go?”

“Yes, but go where?”

“I—oh.” Too busy with her crisis, she’d forgotten that part of the plan. “Right.”

Their room was out of the question when Jester could come back any minute. There might’ve been an empty one on this floor, but Beau’s lockpicking skills weren’t what they used to be. And besides… the walls here were thin, the ceilings low. Fjord’s whip was easily seven feet long and Caduceus snored loud enough to shake the rafters. No way back to the Xhorhouse, no way back to Zadash, and no allies to hide with out in the city. The wind ruffled Beau’s old monk sash as her thoughts bounced around her skull.

Then, like an arrow, she plucked one from midair. “I think I know where to go. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Yasha said, immediately and unflinchingly, the only obvious answer to an obvious question. That swooping feeling in Beau’s stomach curled up like a snake.

“Great,” she said, the edges of the word cracking a little. “Then let’s go.”

She went to open the door, but Yasha’s hand on her shoulder stopped her.

“I…” Yasha sighed. “I would prefer if we didn’t see the others.”

“Yeah, yeah totally. I get that. Oh!” Beau snapped her fingers. “We can sneak out like teenagers who still live at home and their parents suck and won’t let them go out, but we do anyway because fuck them, right? We can do whatever the fuck we want.”

“Is this part of that ‘kill your entire family’ expression Nott told me about?”

“Shh!” Beau insisted despite the empty room. “I—no. No! How did you—Nott, right. Nevermind.” Trust the goblin to never keep a secret, even when it came to Caleb. “Don’t bring that up with the others, alright? Not everyone knows.”

Yasha blinked. “So it is true, then.”

“Ugh, shit. Fine. Yes, it’s true. But it’s a sore subject for him, so we _don’t_ talk about it.”

“Understandable. I did not have parents, but I don’t imagine hearing you killed them all the time is good for you.”

Beau frowned. “You didn’t have parents?”

“Not like that. The tribe raised all children together. Everyone was family, in a way.” Yasha’s eyes flashed. “I can relate to his discomfort.”

There were layers to that one sentence, Yasha’s voice low and dark, and Beau pointedly ignored the tiny tremors that traveled her spine like a tuning fork. She crossed the room onto the balcony. Rexxentrum’s sprawling spiral of buildings stretched in every direction, its jagged skyline illuminated by streetlamps, interrupted by the large wall that encircled the Shimmer Ward. The ivory spear of the Soltryce Academy pierced the darkness with its pale, solitary glow.

A cold breeze rushed over her face, chilling the shaved sides of her head. Beau glanced down into the lush front garden of the house. Only two floors up from here; Beau could easily slip out the window without a sound, but Yasha…

“Do you have any rope?” Beau asked.

“I have bedsheets?” Yasha offered, gesturing to her rumpled bed.

“That’s… hm. A little excessive.”

Yasha turned to stand behind Beau, her hip brushing past Beau’s elbow.

“Down?”

“Yep,” Beau croaked.

Yasha got one foot up on the railing. As tall as she was, it didn’t take much for her to step over it.

“Hey, wait—” Too late, Yasha’s bulk disappeared over the side. The waiting darkness swallowed her eagerly as she fell.

That was the kind of irrationality she’d expect from herself and her jump-now ask-later policy. Yasha was a lot of things – strong, striking, inexplicably soft sometimes – but she wasn’t too great at landing on her feet when it didn’t involve an enemy to slaughter. Beau winced at the thump she heard from below. “You good?”

Yasha rose from one knee in the crater she’d created. “Are you coming?” she asked, a sliver of a smile on her mouth.

“… yeah,” Beau said dumbly, taken with Yasha’s cloak in the wind and her braids blown back from her face and the electricity in her eyes. “Yeah,” she repeated, turning from the storm, running back to place a folded piece of paper on Jester’s bed.

_Gone to help Yasha. Be back soon._

_~~Lov~~ Beau_

Beau shook out her clammy hands. Should she add something else? Should she tear off that last strip? But then how would Jester know it was her? Was she just overthinking it? She was probably overthinking it. She turned the question over, examining it from all angles, attempting to loosen the knot it created in her chest.

This was fine. This was Yasha’s business, not Jester’s. If their lollipop cleric wanted to know (and she would definitely want to know) she could ask Yasha herself. And if Yasha told her, then… that was fine, too. Nothing weird was happening.

Well—nothing weirder than usual. Getting wrapped up in something like this was entirely on-brand for Beau.

Then why did she still feel weirder? Wound up like Caleb’s silver-spun wire, that same child about to get caught sneaking out of her parents’ house? Hot all over like they knew she was picking fights again? Like she was crossing a line without knowing where it was drawn?

Beau tugged at the roots of her hair. Even if she was, she’d always done her own thing. Why would this be any different?

(She knew why. Knew it every time Jester smiled at her, sharp teeth on display, sun glinting on her horns in the morning. Knew it in the way she looked for green cloaks in a crowd.)

Wind slammed the windows against the wall, the Stormlord making his impatience known. Beau drew a hasty dick over the scratched out lettering, complete with a lopsided rendition of Captain Tusktooth, before tucking her cloak tight around her shoulders and jumping off the balcony.

A short drop for her; Beau’s ki pulsed, tangible as it slipped through her fingers. She landed on her feet without a sound.

“About time,” Yasha said without meaning it, hood pulled up over her face. No rain yet but the moon waned in the face of the gathering clouds.

“Had to make sure they didn’t send a search party,” Beau shrugged, her smirk sickle-sharp to cut away her doubts. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

Beau led her away from the Cottage, past the lush leaves and low hanging fruit of its garden. Vegetation twined around the yellow cobblestones of the Shimmer Ward’s main street without getting underfoot. Grand houses hid tucked behind orchards or at a distance on a hill, never quite in full view but still looming with the implication of their wealth.

“To the only place we have allies. I’m a big deal now, remember?”

Yasha grimaced, her lip tattoo stretching out. She trailed her fingers through a tangle of bright blue ferns.

“Are you sure?” Streetlamps poured over Yasha’s dark cloak like oil, dripping off, her body shunning the light. “I am not welcome, I think.”

“You’re with me,” Beau said, hoping that her confidence didn’t come across over-steeped, “they won’t say anything.”

Yasha frowned. “It’s not their words I am concerned about.”

Two massive willow trees flanked the heavy steel gate out of the district, their branches tenderly brushing the grass. Moonlight soaked their gnarled roots and grew tiny, fluorescent blue flowers, open wide to bask in the silvered sun.

Beau leapt and plucked one, snapping its deep purple stem, careful not to crush the glowing leaves that would look far more at home under Rohsona’s black sky.

“I won’t let anything bad happen to you, okay?” Beau promised. She held the flower out to Yasha, suddenly unable to look her in the eye. “Not again.”

“Beau,” Yasha murmured, a pleased flush staining the bridge of her nose. She took the flower so carefully that Beau barely felt their fingers touch. “You—you know… it wasn’t your fault. What happened.”

 _To me_ , went unspoken, but Beau heard it all the same. Yasha said it so soft and quiet, so hesitant, handling the memory like an old sword with rusted edges that still knew how to bite.

“I know,” Beau said, unsure if she was lying. Her ribs felt too tight under her wrappings. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t regret it.”

They all had their ghosts. Yasha inclined her head, leaving that confession between them, shifting her attention to her field book and its pressed pages. “Well… thank you. It is very beautiful.”

Beau watched her deliberate in silence, Yasha’s fingers unbearably delicate over the binding. Her strength might have been what drew Beau in the first place, but this was what made her stay; that bare, unrelenting tenderness which Yasha hid in blood and black shrouding, how gently she handled the things she loved. Moonlight framed the curve of her mouth and Beau’s unpracticed hands itched for ink.

Beau blinked, unbalanced by her own desire. It was suddenly too much to watch Yasha and the tiny furrow in her thinking brow, but looking away didn’t stifle her unease. Or was—was it guilt? Beau still ached for Jester in that new-old way, that way that felt so big sometimes it choked her, but Yasha… Yasha wasn’t not-something. Wasn’t not-almost, not-could’ve been, not… maybe still.

Beau chewed at the inside of her mouth until it bled. It was too much to unpack on the heels of what they were about to do, too much thinking and feeling and not enough danger to dull it down. She promised herself she’d think about it—well, never, if she could help it.

Yasha shut her book. Beau, despite herself, felt her chest knot at Yasha’s pleased smile.

“Found a good place?” she asked, already turning towards the gate.

“I think so,” Yasha nodded. They fell into step, Yasha’s long strides making up for Beau’s attempt to outrun her thoughts. They left the Shimmer Ward, banking southwest through the Tangles, two ghosts in a dark web. The houses here bent inwards with time and the harsh, northern winters, whispering secrets to each other through open windows. Beau passed with her hood up to hide her tattoo, her colourful rainments carefully tucked away. Yasha melted into the dark like she belonged there. Few were out on the streets so late, fewer still paying them much attention. Those that passed huddled deep into their cloaks to escape the sudden turn in weather.

They crossed the Court of Colours quickly, broken cobblestone smoothing out into richly coloured brick. Multichromatic banners flapped in the vicious winds. Beau glanced over the next hill; the bright, squat towers of the Cobalt Library peeked over its zenith, each domed ceiling made entirely of glass. Nearly invisible in the daylight, night painted them into a mirror of stars.

Beau changed her cloak in the darkness between streetlamps, swept onto her back to feature her expositor’s garb. Yasha’s hood obscured her eyes like her new warpaint. They climbed the long path that led to the library in silence, its steep incline exaggerated by design. To allow for easier study or slaughter – that, Beau wasn’t sure.

One monk stood on quiet watch outside. Long alerted by their echoing footsteps, he leaned expectantly into the overhead light as they approached, hand already reaching for his staff to bar their way. Beau puffed her chest up like she always saw Fjord do, spine straightening and shoulders pulling back.

“Evenin’,” Beau grunted. Her eyes swept over his clothing; nearly but not quite out of training, too green to stray far from the library.

Light caught the intricate weave on her vest. The monk stiffened immediately, his hands going to his sides. “G-Good evening, expositor.”

Beau didn’t dwell on how the shake in his voice made her feel, sweeping them both inside. He didn’t even give Yasha a second glance.

The tallest tower was the central intake for the library, hosting most of its books and all of its public access. It soared up above their heads, shorter than Zadash’s spire but no less intricate, layered with three tiers of walkways and a sweeping central staircase that rose so high it vanished into the late-night darkness.

Yasha craned her head in a futile effort to see the ceiling. Her lips turned down.

“You okay?” Beau asked.

“It… does not look like the one in Zadash, but it has the same smell.”

“Yeah, papery. Old books n’ shit. It gets all up in your clothes if you’re here enough.”

“Then we shouldn’t stay long.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

They approached the main desk in front of the stairs. A young boy in robes too big for him manned the counter, his hood drooping over his face, obscuring all but the end of his stubby chin.

“Hey,” Beau put her hand down on the desk. “You the clerk?”

“The archives are closed right now,” he said, not looking up. “Come back in the morning.”

“We’re not lookin’ for the archives.”

“Then come back in the morning.”

Beau reached over and tugged his hood back. A halfling boy with wild, curly hair and dimples blinked owlishly at her. “I get that desk duty is literally, like, the most boring thing ever, but at least look at me when you blow me off.”

It took him a moment to recalibrate, his face flushed so deeply flushed she was worried that he’d pass out as he realized exactly who he tried to dismiss.

“Expositor Lionett!” He shot to his feet. “I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t know—”

“It’s fine,” she cut him off, the back of her neck hot and prickly. “I need a favour.”

“Of course,” he sputtered, bending forward so far his hood flopped back over his head. “Anything you need!”

“Where do you guys interrogate prisoners? Think you can hook me up?”

He frowned. “We, um… we don’t keep prisoners.”

“Not officially, I know. But you guys definitely have a _storage room_ or whatever.”

“W-why do you, uh—”

“Don’t ask so many questions. If I tell you, I’d have to kill you.”

“She would,” Yasha agreed, monotone. His eyes darted over for a second before snapping back to Beau.

“So,” Beau leaned forward over the desk. “Are you gonna help me, or do I have to go wake up Yudala? We’re tight.”

Sweat rolled down his temple. He glanced between them, unable to settle on the biggest threat. Yasha shifted and the hilt of her sword caught the dull light.

“Please don’t do that!” He bowed again, nearly knocking his forehead on the desk. “I’m already under watch for sneaking extra food out of the larder. I-if I get in trouble again, they’re gonna kick me out!”

Beau remembered how it felt to be chastised by the other monks, constantly doing something wrong, and adjusted her stance to be a little less aggressive. “Dude, calm down. Just get me where I need to go, and this conversation never happened.”

“Can your, um, your—friend? Wait here?”

“No can do. She’s my prisoner.” Beau ducked her head down. “Very dangerous, y’know? Not good to leave her unattended.”

His eyes floated back over Beau’s shoulder. Yasha grinned in a way that bared all her teeth, eyes still hidden beneath her cloak.

“Right!” he squeaked, taking a few obvious steps back. “One moment, miss Expositor ma’am—and honored guest!”

He darted into the back room, nearly tripping over himself. Beau turned around to lean against the lip of the desk.

“See?” she smirked. “I’m a big deal.”

“So you are… Expositor Lionett.” Yasha’s voice turned up like a question, the pinprick of her eyes bright and inquisitive under her cloak.

“Oh yeah,” Beau scratched at her scalp, “you weren’t there when we—that’s my last name. I don’t use it much ‘cause my family kinda sucks.”

“I remember you mentioning something like that.”

“It’s a long, complicated story that involves a lot of screaming and crying. And getting arrested. And then kidnapped.”

“That does sound, ah… sucky.”

“It’s mostly my dad’s fault. He’s a… layered individual.”

Yasha hummed. Beau recognized the sound as a placeholder, glossing over what she really wanted to say.

“What?”

“What?” Yasha repeated, flat as always.

Beau nudged Yasha’s ankle with her foot. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

She hummed again, head rolling back to look at the ceiling. “I think… your father sounds like an asshole. And I kind of want to punch him.”

Beau laughed. “Really? Just like that?”

“Yes.” Yasha’s gaze swivelled to meet her. She wasn’t smiling, the draw to her brows serious and shadowed. “Anyone who treats you like that deserves to be hurt. Family is not an exception.”

Warmth rushed like water through Beau’s body. The growing storm growled, distant but resonant, rolling into the quiet space between them.

“Well,” Beau whispered, her mouth suddenly dust-dry, “I’d love to watch. You’d kick his ass.”

The corner of Yasha’s mouth turned up. “I would.”

Their clerk returned, sweat along his hairline and a massive ring of keys in his hand. Beau tore her eyes away. She could still feel Yasha looking at her, the weight of her attention heavy on Beau’s temple, the tension palpable like a static shock.

“Please,” he said, oblivious to the thick silence between them, “t-this way.”

They followed the boy up the main staircase, the giant artery that fed the library’s massive heart. Dozens of other hallways snaked off into the darkness like smaller veins; they ignored them all, climbing to the top and curling around, stepping through the uncovered threshold and into the night. The walkway between buildings only had a low railing and all of Rexxentrum spread out before them like a glittering sea of manmade stars.

Beau tilted her head back, let the cool breeze dry the sweat at the nape of her neck. Dark clouds devoured the last shreds of moonlight. Her tattoo thrummed with every biting wind that passed.

Yasha’s breathing heavied, pulling the petrichor deep into her lungs. Ozone wisped from her parted mouth and out of her hood.

Into a smaller pillar now, half-hidden behind massive oak trees that dotted the Library’s grounds. Blue-green sconces flickered as they traversed endless staircases; up, down, around, delving deeper into the dizzying building. Beau tried to keep track of her steps but found herself getting hopelessly lost, bypassing halls that led to nowhere and stairs that led to more stairs to _more_ stairs, splitting off into three and spiralling down into darkness. It felt like a much longer journey than the architecture should allow – Yasha’s solid footfalls threw echoes and the rooms they crossed always sounded cavernous even when they weren’t.

Eventually, they stopped at another door, darkly-ironed and riveted. No window. The boy took out his jangling ring of keys and began to search for the right one. Yasha’s bulk pressed close to Beau, crowding their space. The shadows here gathered around Yasha’s ankles, drifted too thick to be entirely natural; Beau could see his hands shaking.

At last, he got it open. It creaked on its hinges and swung open an inch to reveal a deeper, denser darkness. “H-here it is,” the boy mumbled, staring resolutely up the stairs.

“Great, thanks.” Beau stepped aside as if to let him through. He took the bait, easily and eagerly, a rushed farewell pouring out of his mouth in his desperate desire to escape.

She reached out as he passed. In one fluid motion, she: slipped her ankle around his, spun him, swept him into the opposite wall. She was soft about it, silent, but her smile spread scythe-sharp.

“No one will come asking for us here because we _weren’t_ , right?”

He swallowed, knees trembling. Sweat soaked the collar of his blue robes black. “Gck—w-w-wrn’t w-what?”

Beau rolled her eyes. Her grip loosened, just a little. “Weren’t here, dumbass. Don’t go telling on us.”

“O-oh, right. Of course not, Miss Lionett—I mean, E-expositor Lionett—”

She released him and he hit the ground on his ass, climbing a few steps backwards before finding his feet again. Beau scratched her eyebrow as he scurried back into the dark. “I’m not sure how we’re gonna get out of here.”

Yasha said nothing. She inched past Beau – a feat, considering how big she was – and stepped into the interrogation chamber. Within a few feet the shadow nearly swallowed her whole.

Beau squinted into the void, following the outline of her towering silhouette. “Where—fuck me, I forgot my goggles. Yasha, do you have a flint—”

Yasha opened her hand, just a little bit, whispering a foreign word that rang out like a far-off chorus. Thunder rolled past them in the dark: a spark of white-blue light burst into existence, a sliver of lightning in her palm.

Beau flinched at the too-sudden brightness. Yasha squeezed it between her fingers until it shattered, scattering shards in every direction to relight the cold torches with an eerie, pale glow.

“Whoa,” Beau couldn’t help herself. “You can do that?”

“Party trick,” Yasha shrugged, pushing her hood back. She unhooked it from her shoulders and draped it over her forearm, revealing her breastband and nothing else.

Beau entered the room next, rotating slow on her heel to case the area, letting her eyes drag and linger. A heavy chandelier covered in chains hung overhead like some twisted halo. “Are you kidding? If Ioun let me do that, I’d be using it like Jester openin’ all the windows.”

Yasha’s voice quieted, low to downplay the flush dusted over her cheeks. “I could always do it. Even before— before I served him.”

Beau came full circle and _really_ looked at her, at how the light bent around her, how it warred with the dark for the right to settle in every carved crevice of her bare body. Sometimes, it was easy to overlook that Yasha wasn’t human. When she had a book in her hand or flowers between her fingers, it softened the sharp edges of her heritage, dampened that iridescent undertone to her flesh.

But then, sometimes, the light greyed her skin into a corpse’s cast and made the blackness under her eyes come alive. Yasha fidgeted with her cloak and the shadows articulated around her, living as they licked at her knuckles and made a home under her jaw. Even in darkness, she was celestial.

 _Of course,_ Beau’s eyes subconsciously flicked up over Yasha’s head to check for a halo. _How could I ever forget she was special?_

“Well,” Beau cleared her suddenly dry throat. “It’s—cool. I wish I could.”

Yasha smiled, bashful. “It’s just an illusion. You—you are much more talented than that.”

“I doubt that.” Beau meant it to be dismissive, turning away to study the various torture implements attached to the walls, but Yasha’s hand on her shoulder stopped her. Her massive fingers settled in the divots of her spine, thumb solid against her collarbone. Beau shivered.

“I’m serious, Beau,” Yasha insisted. “Magic doesn’t make someone special. I could never do the things you do.”

“What, like punch people? Or be rude?” Beau scoffed. “Look at your arms. I’m sure you’d do just fine.”

“You’re direct, not rude. But I meant I can’t run up walls, or decipher riddles, or bargain with royalty, or—"

Heat crawled up Beau’s neck. “Jeez, okay. I get it. Blow more smoke up my ass and I’ll call you Caleb.”

Yasha blinked. “Caleb does not smoke.”

“That’s not—” Beau cracked a smile, “maybe he does. You know Zemnians.”

“I only know one Zemnian.” Yasha’s brows drew in. “Though, I suppose he lights a lot of things on fire.”

“He does.” Beau reached into her belt and pulled out Fjord’s whip. It uncoiled down her leg, pooling on the stone floor. “But enough about Caleb. We’re here for you, yeah?”

She didn’t miss the way Yasha’s eyes drifted down the length of the weapon. “Yah.”

The rawhide bit into Beau’s clenched fingers. “Then give me a little bit to, uh, _focus_. Before we, y’know. Start.”

“Oh.” Yasha swallowed, and Beau burned from her fingertips to her toes. “Right.”

They split awkwardly, Beau taking a few obvious steps back before sitting down. Yasha retreated to the far end of the room – it was tall in here but not terribly wide, no more than thirty paces in any direction from the center, and Beau could still hear her breathing. She forced her gaze from Yasha’s broad back and into her lap.

Beau took a fortifying breath. The whip caught the dry skin between her fingers as she ran it through them. Parts were still stained purple, back in the snows when Fjord saved her fucking life, stopped her from falling forever into the dark. It seemed like so long ago; his hands didn’t quite work right for a few days, too weak to unscrew his canteen, and she’d opened it for him every time without a word.

So much had changed even since then, a fraction of time gone in a blink of an eye. Obann was dead, the war was at a standstill, and Yasha… Yasha was back with them. Three days now and Beau still had trouble wrapping her head around it. For two long months it had been the group’s only goal, their shared pain, their first thought in the morning. It drove them across the continent and drew their blood. But what now? Yasha was free but still shackled by her guilt, and none of them knew how to forge a key.

Or stop the nightmares.

She pulled the whip around her palm, just enough to sting. Beau knew full well Yasha hadn’t been sleeping. Not that she could blame her, but—the rain always started when she left to sit on the balcony, and Beau would stare at the wall and listen to the quiet _plink_ on the glass. Every night, without fail, Beau laid on her side without moving a muscle and willed herself to get up. And every night, her chest ached as the winds changed and she just— she didn’t. Couldn’t. Not yet.

(Beau only turned around once. Outlined by the storm, Yasha’s silhouette stooped over the railing, the line of her body broken by her bowed head. It felt wrong to watch when she clearly wanted to be alone, so Beau forced herself back to sleep.)

But that was why she’s here now, right? Sitting on the hard floor in a potentially underground torture chamber, sweat beading along her spine but _cold_ from the chill drafting in from the door. Beau wasn’t sure where all this moisture in her body was coming from – her palms, slick, slipped over the whip. It soaked into the leather but magic wicked it away.

Chains clinked, quiet. Beau looked over as Yasha reached out, running them between her fingers. Shadows swayed on the far wall as she tugged to test their weight. The chandelier creaked. Parts of the metal were rusted red, never cleaned after being bloodied, a dark stain permanently pooled on the floor. Beau wondered how many secrets had been spilled in this space. Yasha wrapped them around her wrist and pulled until her skin blanched.

Beau took a slow, steady inhale. “I think there are manacles. On the ends. If you, uh, want them.”

Yasha pried them open, flipped them around. They’d cover the entire forearm of someone who wasn’t… well, her.

“I think I do.”

Beau tracked her as she crossed the room. Yasha only half-turned her back as she removed her breastband, laying it out on her folded cloak, and hesitated but for a moment before reaching for the drawstring on her pants. Beau twisted the leather so hard the whip creaked, mouth dry. Yasha stepped out of each leg methodically and neatly put them away with the rest of her clothes.

Here, she paused for longer. Beau regained control of her eyes and averted them to the ceiling.

“Does it—” Yasha stopped, shifting her weight. Beau stole a glance at her legs as they tensed. They could undoubtedly crush her skull to powder. “Would I—make you uncomfortable if I… took these off?”

Her fingers rubbed at the waist of her smallclothes. More sweat, lukewarm now, stuck Beau’s hair to the back of her neck.

“I—” Beau looked at something on the far wall. “Nope.”

A moment passed, Beau’s heart beating in her ears. Yasha’s chuckle slipped into a sigh. “Beau.”

Beau glanced over, eyes dipping too low for a second before they came back up.

Yasha’s one eyebrow raised. “Are you lying?”

“Define lying as a term.”

“Not being truthful.”

“I’m not lying.” Yasha’s long braids fell over her shoulders, the jewelry woven inside catching the ghostly light, and Beau focused on that. “Maybe just stretching the truth a little.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“I don’t think so.”

Yasha crossed her arms. Her biceps firmed up, her shoulders squaring; Beau pulled on the whip again and burnt her fingers. “Then, what are you… stretching?”

They locked eyes for a few seconds, Beau having to peer up at Yasha from the ground. Even with most of her clothes off, she had this heavy energy about her, bared skin sickly-white and shining where the light touched.

“I’m not—uncomfortable.” Beau rolled her stiff neck. “If that’s, like—if it’s what you need, then go for it. You’re the expert. I’m just—" _Gay? Confused? Both?_ “—I dunno. Nervous?”

Yasha tilted her head. “Why are you nervous? We’ve been to a bathhouse before.”

“Sure have,” Beau agreed easily, gaze bouncing around the room before leveling by Yasha’s left ear. “But that’s—it’s different, alone. With you.”

She wasn’t exactly sure what she was admitting, but—Beau squirmed as she said it, itching like she’d wiggle out of her skin, hot under her vest and heart in her mouth. The room felt too small for them both suddenly, like the walls dragged in another few feet and squished them together. Yasha’s eyes widened, her chin pulling back, her posture loosening as she lost her edges and her arms fell back down by her side.

“Beau, I—” Yasha licked her lips. Every time her name fell from Yasha’s mouth it was too gentle, too reverent, handling it like a priest would a prayer. “It… it doesn’t have to be.”

And really, wasn’t that what she wanted? To go back to pining alone, somewhat-secret, wrapped up in one heartache without having to consider another? Beau had never been good at juggling; Jester occupied both hands and heart and head, overfull, and Beau would rather die than drop all the good she’d been given.

But Yasha’s shoulders were soft and her brow relaxed, skin darkening like a midnight flower in full bloom, and Beau wasn’t sure what she wanted anymore. What she was allowed to want. Was there even enough room in one body for two people?

“Maybe it does,” Beau said before she could stop it. It slipped from her mouth like a secret, like slander, and the second it did the whip’s magic wrapped itself around her. _Maybe it does_ , Beau’s heart echoed. That truth pounded through every inch of her, made the leather in her hands come alive. The words fell into place like a lock finally unbolting after years staying shut.

Beau rose, suddenly so close to the other woman that they traded air. Yasha stood so still Beau wasn’t sure she was breathing – she wasn’t, not for a long time, until her sharp exhale that threatened to crack Beau open all over again.

“I think—” Beau licked her lips, mouth tacky. “I’m ready. If you are.”

“Yah.” Yasha said, barely audible. Her pupils were so wide Beau could put her pinky through them.

“Do you want to... take those off?” In another life, Beau would reach over and touch the curl of Yasha’s hip, the edge of her smallclothes. She could only imagine how sharp the bone would be.

But here, she just watched as Yasha nodded, slow and considering. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Yasha retreated to her pile of clothes. Beau didn’t miss the short, furtive glance in her direction as she shucked them off, folded neatly like everything else. Beau pointedly examined the weave of her whip, running her fingers over the threads that hummed with reawakened magic.

Now naked, her bare skin turning her into a beacon in the dimly-lit space, Yasha stepped under the chandelier. The chains licked her body as she kneeled, slow and deliberate. She reached up and forced her oversized wrists into the shackles.

“I just realized we don’t have a key,” Beau said as the first one clicked into place.

Yasha didn’t hesitate, closing the second manacle. “You’re crafty. We can figure it out.”

“Your faith in me is a little unwarranted.”

“I don’t think so.”

Beau swallowed, her chest burning. “You sure do know how to make a girl feel special.”

Yasha turned, her sea-green eye fixing on Beau. With her arms suspended over her head, highlighting the strong spread of her shoulders and the broadness of her back, she looked… statuesque. Like she belonged in an art collection, chiseled into stone. Her scapulae flared out into stunted wings.

Yasha opened her mouth to say something, reconsidered, and settled with: “You are special, Beau.”

“Says the one chosen by the god of lightning.” Beau wrung the whip in her hands. Her blood rushed through her ears, moving too quickly and without direction. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“So do I just, like—hit you? With it?”

“You know how whips work.”

Beau coughed. “How do you know that?”

Yasha’s eyebrow curled up. “Because we’ve killed people who use them?”

“Oh.” Heat blossomed along Beau’s cheeks. “Right. Okay. Yep.”

“Beau—”

“It’s fine! Just—look ahead. It’s really distracting when you stare at me.”

Yasha smiled the tiniest bit, untwisting her chains to face the wall again. Beau took a few deep breaths. The air was musty, unused, mildew sticking to the back of her throat.

“Here I go.”

“You don’t have to—”

_CRACK!_

Beau lashed out. The whip flew from her hand in a blink, licking a razor-fine stripe down Yasha’s back, too far away for any contact except the very tip of the weapon. Yasha stiffened, sitting up straighter.

“Shit,” Beau mumbled, “that wasn’t right. Let me…”

She stepped forward, struck again. Too close this time; the whip wrapped around Yasha’s side, leaving an ugly blue-black stripe along her ribs.

“Sorry.”

Yasha grunted. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“Fuck, how did Fjord do it?” Beau went back half a pace and closed her eyes, weighing the whip in her hand. She scooted her heel to the side and she was suddenly back in the snow, heart pounding, the worm screeching as it tossed them into the air. Her shoulders clenched. Beau breathed out forcibly, brow furrowing, bringing her arm down as he did in an arc and—

_CRACK!_

Yasha lurched forward. Her chains rattled as the whip raked across her left shoulder, leaving behind an angry red welt.

Beau almost apologized again. “Oh fuck,” she said instead, “was that okay?”

“Fine.” Yasha’s voice was tight, barely using any air.

CRACK!

This lash opened a weeping cut across the small of Yasha’s back, close to her ass. The only indication that it hit was a minute tightening in her shoulders.

CRACK!

Again, higher up this time, diagonal across her spine. If Beau wasn’t careful it cut too deep, exposing layers of her flesh like a knife. Her gut bubbled uncomfortably.

CRACK!

Her right shoulder.

CRACK!

Left hip.

CRACK!

Long, arcing lines criss-crossed Yasha’s back. Blood began to run from them, sluggish, flicking over the floor as Beau withdrew her weapon. Yasha hadn’t moved since the first lash, held so still the chains barely made a noise.

CR-

This one missed, Beau pulling back at the last second. Yasha flinched with the ghost of impact. Beau watched her blood run and run and couldn’t shake the uneasy itch in her fingers, the echo of it reverberating through her with every strike.

She shifted her sweaty grip. Yasha spread her knees a little wider, shoulders rising with a steady breath.

Beau couldn’t force her arm down again. She rolled her shoulder, already aching from the effort. The light from Yasha’s sconces reflected off her back, made it glint as her blood ran.

“You’re holding back,” Yasha said, eventually, when the next lash took too long to come.

Beau raked one hand through her disheveled hair, damp at the back of her neck. “So are you. There’s no way that doesn’t hurt.”

They stood there together in the dimness, listening to the creak of the chandelier and their own misaligned thoughts. Beau blew air through her nose like it would help clear the dust in her head.

“This isn’t right. It feels very… like, disjointed, y’know? Like we’re on the opposing team instead of the same side.”

Yasha tilted her head, not quite far enough for Beau to see her eyes. “Do you want to win?”

“I want _you_ to win.”

“I would like to win as well, but not if it means you lose.”

“No one has to lose anything.” Beau scratched her temple. “I hope.”

“Then how do we… come together?”

Beau snorted, barely able to hold her tongue. Yasha leaned forward a little to take some of the weight off her shoulders. Her back shifted, the muscles there coiling and tensing, moving her wounds like alive. Yasha always bruised so pretty; a constellation of purple-blue-black that never stayed static, constantly shifting like the heavens to which her ancestors once belonged.

In this light, some parts a deeper dark than others, they really did look like stars. Beau tracked them, idly drawing lines to create her own patterns. Her own gods. One particularly nasty lash that was more like a laceration sat at the base of Yasha’s neck. It cut into the scar left behind by Obann’s mark, marring but not erasing the brand.

Something itched at the back of Beau’s mind. She stared into that wound like it had an eye to stare back with.

 _Your throat chakra is wide open, Beauregard._ Zeenoth’s voice bounced around in her head. _That kind of self-expression can get you in trouble._

“Oh, fuck,” Beau said softly to herself.

“What?”

“I… think I have an idea. It’s crazy, though. Batshit. I’ve—I’ve never done it before.”

 _Everyone has ki._ Dairon, now. A lesson that she’d half-forgotten. _Only we know how to wield it as a weapon, but others, too, can be awakened if given the proper… stimulation._

Beau didn’t pay attention in those classes. It was all theoretical, the spouting of old sages who couldn’t use their fists. Ki was a river, each riverbank was a person and they were all unique, yadda yadda. She slept through it usually, exhausted after sneaking out all night to practice her striking, knees still green-grass stained, fingernails crusted over with dirt and blood.

She knew the basics: everyone has ki, always in motion, always flowing. Like blood, but intangible to those untrained in how to use it. That ki came from chakras (how many? Beau couldn’t remember) scattered through the body that acted as… portals. Gates.

And just like any gate, everyone can close them off, disturbing that eternal flow… and everyone can have them opened again. But sometimes, they need a little direction. A little…

Connection.

Yasha did turn, then. Looked at her with a serious, curious expression. “Will it work?”

“I’m—I dunno, Yash. This kinda stuff is super not my league.” Was? Is now, maybe? She exhaled. “There’s a chance I’m just talkin’ straight out my ass. Nobody ever, like, taught me. They tried, but… I wasn’t a very good student.”

“Experience is its own teacher.”

Beau blinked, head cocking back. “That’s… yeah. I guess so.”

“I heard Caduceus say it, once.” Yasha managed to look sheepish despite being bound and bloody.

Beau chewed on her lip, already tracking down Yasha’s spine, searching for the soft, meaty grooves between the bone. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” There it was again. Without hesitation, without stopping to consider, like she’d never been surer of anything in her life.

Beau swallowed, wrapping the whip immobile around her fist. She took one long moment to look around the room as if it would be different once they were done.

“Then let’s fuck it up.”

She cracked all her fingers, stretching her muscles, quickening the flow of energy running under her skin. Beau ignored the teachings for so long; too hurt, too stubborn to learn when she was still reeling, uprooted from the only place she’d ever known like she was nothing more than a weed to be exterminated. That kind of betrayal didn’t exactly beget patience, or calmness, or any of the other things they said she needed to know to be _good._

It still didn’t come easily.

_Before you begin, you must always find your center. Bind yourself to the breath. Listen to the spirit’s rhythm and follow the sound._

Beau circled around and crouched in front of Yasha. She met her gaze, Yasha’s eyes bright under the curtain of her hair, soft despite the steel inside them. They were so close; Beau could see the threads of blue in her green eye that twined together like ocean water.

She reached out, only to hesitate like it would burn if they touched.

Yasha leaned forward to meet her halfway. Their foreheads knocked gently, tenderly, a faint film of sweat built up on Yasha’s brow. Beau exhaled shakily and pressed her palm to Yasha’s chest, exactly where her own scar was.

Beau wasn’t sure how long they sat there together. Yasha’s slow, steady heartbeat rocked through her, firm against her fingers. At some point Beau’s eyes slipped shut, her body tipping forward until she rested her weight on Yasha completely. And Yasha just… held her there. Her warm breath washed over Beau like the winds before a sunshower.

All the noise in Beau’s head drained out. She swayed with her, every push and pull between them tidal, rhythmic; Beau’s breath swelled like water, like the waves on Nicodranus’ shores. She let it flow over her, carry her into open ocean. Yasha’s heartbeat kept her tethered even as she felt herself drifting away.

When Beau finally pulled back, the echo of Yasha’s pulse in her head lingered, her soul and her song made audible. Yasha’s half-lidded eyes tracked her as she disappeared from her field of view and returned to her old position.

_First into Boar._

Beau settled into her haunches, squatting deep. Her heel ground into the stone as she inhaled sharply, stoking the root chakra, that furnace at the base of her belly. She kept that emptiness with her: let it make her hollow, make her light.

_Then up, into Crane._

Beau raised her hands over her head. She held that breath, letting it press against her lungs, her ki rushing up past her pelvis and into her spine. She stood up straight and let it ripple out, steam wisping on her breath as her gut chakra churned awake.

_Good. Now back, into Monkey._

She stretched her arms out in front of her. Beau took another steadying breath as her energy flowed into her palms. Her heart chakra stirred as she raked her ki across her body, rousing every fiber, lighting up every nerve. With each movement she reminded herself what she was doing and why she was here, repeating it over and over like a mantra.

_Yasha. Yasha. Yasha._

Beau rocked back onto one foot, leaning into it. Energy splashed around inside her chest, threatening to spill out with every movement, scalding as it licked up her ribs and around her collar. Yasha’s heartbeat pounded inside her head; Beau hummed and let it vibrate to match the tone.

Ki rose up her gorge. Beau didn’t fight it, let it bubble there, echoing up her throat and out her mouth.

_That’s right. Do you feel yourself aligning? The gates opening?_

Beau didn’t, not when she was first shown. But now? She wasn’t sure how she’d ever shut them again.

_Stay focused. Don’t get overwhelmed. Up now, into Lotus. Open the eye that Ioun gifted to you._

She crouched down and drew her arms in a wide arc as she lunged forward, like scooping water from a stream. Beau tilted her head up, brows relaxed, sucking in another large breath of air. The center of her forehead ached as her ki flowed up behind her eyes, her ears, prickling her scalp. Her tattoo burned.

The room seemed brighter for a moment. Beau exhaled, acutely aware of how hot the air was in her chest, how it swirled between her teeth as she let it out. Sweat stuck her rainments to her back and her hair to her neck; Beau shucked her garb in one smooth movement, leaving her only in her chestwraps. She was already sweat-slicked, gulping air like she was starved for it, but she couldn’t stop now. Beau pulled her arms in, hands opening. Her limbs were no longer separate from her core; she was all one being, one body, one circuit connected.

All that was left was to join their separate circuits together.

_Now that you know yourself, you must know the world. You are but one thread in the tapestry. All things align; all things connect._

Ki spilled from the crown of her head like a halo. White-violet light engulfed her, running down her body in a dense mist. Beau existed here but not-here, joined to all energy, aligned to the leyline of the universe. She thought of each and every person she knew in a fraction of a second, where they were and what they were doing, how they’d guided her to this moment right now. Her team, her teachers, even—even her town. Her father, telling her she’d never amount to anything. That she’d never outlive her family’s legacy.

And Yasha, her hands clenched into fists, patiently waiting for pain. Beau’s ki cloud stretched out to her. Yasha stiffened at first as it wrapped around her, but relaxed back into it, slow and careful, as it began to soothe the burn of the lash.

_And now…_

Beau inhaled a final time, directing all her energy into her fingers. This next step was new. Her own design, her own desire. She didn’t believe in the gods the way the others did, but sent a prayer to Ioun anyway.

Lightning licked her wrist to be devoured by her gloves.

_Mantis._

Beau struck. Her middle knuckle jutted out from her fist, the first point of contact as she slammed it directly over Obann’s broken mark. Her ki surged down her fist like a tsunami, like a hurricane, nearly unbearable as it forced its way through her.

And Yasha?

She _screamed._ Beau had only ever heard a sound like that from her once before: in the Cathedral, when Caduceus broke her bonds, that primal howl of grief and anger and release.

But this one… was all pain.

That psychic _blast_ of anguish washed up Beau’s arm. Like acid, it chewed up what it touched – threatened to eat straight through Beau’s own body. She gritted her teeth and forced it back down, pressing hard, digging one knuckle and then two into the wound. The sickly glint of Yasha’s spine ground against her fingers.

Chakras weren’t used to outside manipulation. They resisted it, slow and stubborn, stiff like an unused muscle. _They must be coaxed open slowly with patience and practice,_ Zeenoth always said, _like a delicate flower. Each petal opening individually to the light._

Beau had forgotten that part.

Her ki flooded Yasha’s body, an unstoppable torrent. It slammed into each of Yasha’s gates and tore them wide open like her sword through Beau’s chest. Yasha arched, chains taut, rigid as she bit down on her tongue.

Beau dug deeper, pressing forward until she had her entire weight leaning on those two knuckles. Her ki poured down Yasha’s spine, into her gut, filling up that reservoir in seconds. Their energy clashed – oil and water, two magnets with one pole – and surged up together.

Light filled Yasha from the inside. Her veins, bloated with burning starshine, began to glow under her skin.

Beau felt her pain, her panic. How could she not? The longer they were connected together, the tighter their weave began to intersect, drawing their threads together to form a complete picture. The lick of the lash bled through onto her own back like she was the one struck.

“Yasha,” Beau panted, “don’t fight it.”

Yasha didn’t respond, jaw clenched shut. Snatches of memory that weren’t her own played in Beau’s head: broken bodies, burning buildings, Obann’s red skin glimmering with fresh blood. His hand on the back of Yasha’s neck, the ghost of it curling around Beau’s nape.

It had only been three days since Yasha got her mind back. It was no wonder she was hesitant to give it up again.

But Beau kept pushing, wading through the chaotic fog of Yasha’s thoughts, refusing to yield to the storm as it battered her. She pressed down and Yasha bowed forward, shoulders twisted awkwardly in the chains. “I’m not him. He can’t hurt you again.”

Her ki crawled up Yasha’s throat, into her forehead. Their energy roiled together, seething, unable to find a place to settle. Blood streamed down her back and soaked into Beau’s boots.

_Beau!_

Yasha didn’t say it with sound, but Beau heard it anyway. Energy crackled, barely contained, under Yasha’s scalp as Beau forced her third eye open. Her skull was the only thing holding her head together, that immense pressure threatening to blow it wide open – to expose every piece of her to the ether.

Like any sane person, Yasha recoiled from that inevitability, but Beau urged her towards it. Towards her.

“Trust me,” Beau said, her voice resonating through them both, “let go.”

And just like that, like it had been that easy all along, Yasha did.

Beau’s ki shot straight through the top of Yasha’s head as their circuits locked together. It broke her crown-chakra apart, shattering it into a billion pieces, nearly sucking Yasha’s unpracticed soul straight into the slipstream of the universe. Beau clamped her hand around the back of Yasha’s neck, anchoring her before she flew too far – Beau’s head spun, two different images from two different pairs of eyes trying to come together.

Yasha’s energy, tentative, reached out. Beau doubted she did it consciously. Taken beyond her body for the first time, it grasped for what it knew (what it _trusted_ ) in this strange, collective mindscape; not quite astral projection, not quite ego death. They twined together in this liminal place, this space that wasn’t space, drifting through each other like they never had physical forms at all.

Two bodies together under one consciousness, the separate streams of their thoughts pooling together, unable to be fully distinguished in the ether. Yasha’s memory ran through her like a river with an overwhelming current, sweeping them both away—

—and for a moment they were somewhere else entirely, a grey moorland under a starless sky, dappled only by the lick of red flame over a broken encampment. Beau looked down and blood welled under her feet, the marshland layered thick with bodies, Yasha kneeling with her sword over her knees and Obann’s mark a bright, orange eye on the back of her neck—

As soon as the image came, it vanished again. Beau fell back into that room, soul hanging only half-inside her body; her hands were sticky with Yasha’s blood, cramped from being clenched so long.

She pulled back. A thin silver thread came with her, twisted through her closed fist, unspooling from Yasha’s spine. Yasha flinched as she plucked at it, a blistering torrent of unnameable emotion lancing through them both. It was nearly unbearable with its intensity: a raw nerve, an exposed livewire.

Her astral tether. Made of the highest energy, the purest essence, condensed into a single string. Yasha’s soul, silvered and spun.

Not something you’d trust to just anyone.

Beau exhaled, her ki-cloud rolling over to engulf them both. It spilled from Yasha now, too, pouring from the open crown of her head. They met and mixed like the mists over the open ocean, how winds gathered to create a storm.

She opened her fist, let the whip fall from it. It passed through Yasha’s soul-thread, but instead of getting tangled, it ate up the light it touched. The leather began to glow, to _throb_ , pulsing to the steady beat of Yasha’s heart.

Her own ki ran down her arm. It sunk into the weapon, twisting together with Yasha’s energy, lending its strength and stability. The whip lengthened, so bright it was hard to look at – steam hissed from its surface that shifted, ephemeral, molten silver not yet cast into shape.

Beau cracked the whip; deep like thunder, the vibration rolled up into her shoulder and rattled her teeth. Yasha’s trepidation shivered through her at the sound.

 _Trust me_ , Beau willed again, the astral winds carrying her thoughts forward. Yasha sucked in a deep breath and nodded, Beau’s head bobbing with it.

She stepped back. Beau moved like underwater; every slow step she was fighting against the power, against the universe that swelled to inhabit her body. Her physical form felt… transparent. Ethereal. Fading into the background, a flesh phantom that existed only to serve this purpose. Her true essence tangled with Yasha, shunted reassurance into that bond, steadying her even as Beau drew her arm up to strike.

Despite the resistance her arm was quick, the crack of the whip loud like Nott’s shitty pistol, the air in the room gathering into a razor-thin line.

_CRACK!_

Blood flew into Beau’s eyes as the whip came down. She split Yasha open, deeper than ever before, from right shoulder to left hip and the pain that shot through their connection made her stagger. Yasha couldn’t hold in her yelp – not that it mattered. Beau heard it in her head, too, like a ghost.

But… beneath that blinding hurt was a kernel of something else, a seed that took root in Yasha’s body, swallowed by the darkness and unable to grow. Beau felt it too, in her belly. She had to dig it out for it to find the light.

So she struck again.

_CRACK!_

Nearly the exact same place, the whip slicing Yasha’s skin apart. Blood splattered onto the floor. Yasha whimpered, rocking back, a long flap of flesh on her back flopping open to expose her writhing musculature.

Beau swallowed, gritted her teeth. Again.

_CRACK!_

Across her low back. Yasha’s blood began to hiss, bubble, a dark smoke leaking from her open wounds. So much blood… rolling down the backs of her thighs, welling between her toes. The back of Beau’s mouth bloomed with an iron flower.

Beau lost track of how many times she brought the whip down. They were here but not, together, somewhere else Beau didn’t know but did because _Yasha_ knew. Every strike shook another memory from her, another guilt, another life Yasha wished she could take back.

_CRACK!_

One lash split her down to the bone and this time Yasha _shrieked_ , twisting in her chains. Her halo rattled. Beau drew the whip back: a single, steel-grey feather came with her, fluttering to the blood-soaked ground.

Something in Yasha shuddered. Another memory floated to the surface; that same encampment whole and unbroken, the midday sun shining down, unrelentless, Yasha’s skin glittering like smeared with diamond dust. A woman with fiery red hair and a kind smile, carding her fingers with an aching gentleness through Yasha’s feathered wings. Beau felt her touch, too, leaned into it as Yasha did.

_CRACK!_

It vanished on the next strike, returning to its ruined state. Yasha’s blade heavy in her hand, coated in blood, red hair at her feet stamped into the mud.

More feathers started to appear. They fell from Yasha’s back as Beau flayed her open, her flesh stripping off, hanging in tatters around her. That darkness poured from her now, thick and oily, clouding the room. It smothered the sconces but Beau used Yasha’s eyes and kept focused through the dark.

A wind started to pick up; gentle at first, a welcome breeze against Beau’s sweat-soaked body. Smoke gathered at the ceiling and swirled together. Light flashed in its depths, quickly swelling into an angry cloud, static hanging thick in the air. It danced across Yasha’s skin, each touch of the whip to her body sending the charge through Beau’s fingers.

Her gloves gobbled it up. The abyssal runes began to glow, pulsing in time to Yasha’s heartbeat, the same Beau could still – always – hear in her head.

_CRACK!_

_Focus,_ Beau urged when Yasha’s thoughts began to fray. More of her skin was red than white at this point – thick sheets of it slid down her body, pooling underneath her, running like rivers in all directions. It mixed with her hair and matted it down, hiding the worst of her wounds to the naked eye.

But Beau felt it. Gods, did she ever _feel_ , Yasha’s turmoil washing over them. Not like a flame, no, nothing so blinding – a deep, freezing grief that eclipsed even the worst of the pain. Yasha had known more than she could ever hope to and lost even more still, and that loss stretched out like an ocean in her lungs, threatened to drown her with every breath. 

Beau gritted her teeth and brought the whip down again. _Where is your guilt? Where is it hiding?_

_CRACK!_

Obann’s laughing face in front of them, his grin pulling over his fangs, his curled horns dripping with red rubies. Yasha recoiled and slid in the blood under her knees, only the chains keeping her steady. Another long strip of her back split open and expelled a handful of slick feathers.

The heat of her anger temporarily warmed that sea of sorrow inside her. Yasha howled, chasing that warmth, clinging onto the rage that kept her alive all those years. It began to trickle through their connection; Beau’s heart raced, unused to the frenzy, to the sheer _intensity_ of that hatred.

And beyond the fury, another feeling. Warm, too, but different. Sticky. It pooled in Beau’s gut, that buried seed aching to flower as it sat heavy in her pelvis, shared between them like sweet fruit.

She didn’t have time to linger.

_CRACK!_

Beau had never felt a pain so intense – not one she had to stay conscious for. Yasha’s back was a raw, glistening mess of muscle and sinew, scraps of her skin hanging loose from her shoulders, feathers poking out in all directions and scattered at her knees. Smoke poured from every open crevice, that thunderhead hanging low and ominous in the dip of the chamber’s ceiling. The wind picked up to a roar to match her screams.

They traded this pain back and forth, stood on both their shoulders so it wouldn’t break one alone. Yasha’s astral tether vibrated through Beau, a frequency unknown to anyone else, and Beau’s being rose to match its pitch – parts of her soul flowed through their connection, Yasha eating up anything Beau had to give her.

( _Remember, Beau,_ Dairon once said, _for all rivers can flow both ways.)_

Beau balked as Yasha careened through her memories, her twisted-tangled feelings, falling through and leaving them churning in her chaotic wake – her parents and her past and their present; her terror and her trust, all laid bare, all brought through into this space they shared. Beau couldn’t help it, couldn’t control it, the feed not distinguishing between what she was willing to show and what she wanted to keep tucked away.

Blue, like Nicodranus. Like the Cobalt Soul. Like Jester, her mischievous grin a light in the dark, her unrelenting kindness a balm to Beau’s battered soul.

_CRACK!_

The images scattered, reforming, turning from blue to silver. Silver like the ghosts they’d crossed, like the beacon, like Yasha’s skin and gentle hands and her stare that burned Beau like fire underwater.

That strange feeling in her gut deepened, darkened, pulled at the root of her. Warmth gathered between her legs and Beau couldn’t tell if it was Yasha’s or her own. Didn’t know if it mattered. Yasha shifted and it was slick between her thighs, a shiver of pleasure through the pain a searing tide that flowed over Beau’s body.

Yasha didn’t notice. Or if she did, there was no surprise to it, no shame. Her head hung forward, every part of her focused on staying upright. Shadow lifted from her shoulders and spiraled up, meeting with the dark clouds, joining them together.

 _Where is it hiding?_ Beau asked again, her grip sweaty on her whip. _What are you atoning for? What do you wish you could erase?_

_CRACK!_

So many things, all at once, battering them like a ship stranded at sea. Zuala and Yasha’s broken tribe and Molly, Molly Molly _Molly,_ his smile and his skin and the sound of his voice, the coolness of his gravedirt between her fingers, his horns digging into her shoulder as they shared a tent at the circus. His claws light against Yasha’s bicep and his hand at the small of her back and even once, in a bedroll together, skin on skin and silent as the thunder rolled by.

Yasha keened, the sound low and broken in her chest. Beau drank it in like a trainwreck, like a funeral, bound to watch but wishing with every second that she didn’t have to, that she could finally put that grief to rest instead of dragging it newly-risen to the surface.

The wind roared through the room. Yasha screamed into it, her hair lashing her face, streaming black and bloody behind her. Clouds gathered before them, a black mass that smothered all light in the space, twisting-turning into a person, a hazy reflection, looming over them.

It grew as Yasha howled, swelling until it dwarfed them both. It responded to her agony, its terrible mouth opening wide, its scream buffeting them both with winds that could scour flesh from bone.

_CRACK!_

Beau brought her arm down again and again. Her shoulder burned but she daren’t stop; more and more feathers fell from Yasha’s back and the storm picked them up, a whirlwind of grey and black obscuring the room. Beau’s front was blood-slicked, sweat-slicked – between her legs still sticky with Yasha’s shared arousal and mounting with every fresh lash.

Beau swallowed, wading through the noise. Yasha’s screams turned into words, slurred between Celestial and Abyssal, divine and damned twisting together into one long, pleading prayer. The whip flayed her apart and Yasha began to crack open, her ki trembling, vibrating at a frequency high enough to shatter lesser beings. Beau reached deep inside her and brought it back up when it tried to shrink away, let herself be the vessel when Yasha’s body couldn’t bear to hold onto it any longer.

The scenery around them morphed again, hazing blue, familiar marble underfoot stained red and faces Beau knew frozen in terror. Yasha, her body filling the space, that same shadow shivering off her and darkening Zadash’s halls, Zeenoth’s body slipping off her sword like a butchered animal—

She was crying. Beau could feel her tears, trickling down her own face. It snapped them out of the library and back into the room, back into the storm, back into the pain as Beau drew her arm down again.

 _CRACK_!

Yasha’s back zippered open to reveal her spine. Most of her back was feathers, plastered to her body by a thin layer of gore - they scattered as Beau struck, her energy rocketing through the whip, slicing Yasha wide open.

Lightning flashed overhead, Beau’s mouth heavy with ozone and sharp with the taste of the storm. Yasha’s prayer turned into one heavenly word, over and over again, sung so loud and long and with so much pain Yasha’s voice broke off and doubled over itself. An entire orchestra swelled in every corner of the room; a celestial chorus, a carrion call. The wind screamed and Yasha screamed back, battering them both, Beau not even able to feel her own flesh but knowing, somehow, they were close to the edge of _something_ , riding that wave, cresting up and over and—

—and through all that, the image of Beau’s own body, face pale below the blade; it blended with Beau’s memory, Yasha’s tears catching in the grin on her face—Yasha’s hands hot on her chest, sloppily knitting her back together as she ached and ached and ached—Beau and Molly’s bodies superimposed like a bad photograph, the two of them fading into each other, the light draining from his eyes as Beau could do nothing more than watch—

A thunderbolt of grief, sizzling and searing, lanced through them both. Slick slid down Beau’s trembling thighs as she brought the lash down one last time, her gloves discharging, the raw power of them letting the whip reach up and slice through the clouds, bringing down a blinding bolt of white-blue lightning onto Yasha’s broken back.

_CR-KOW!_

Yasha’s release came like a tsunami, her ki surging through their connection to sweep out all the noise. She arched against the chains with a howl, pain and pleasure bleeding through each other until they were indistinguishable, unidentifiable: inseparable. The mere echo of its intensity forced Beau to her knees – wetness soaked her smallclothes, unable to tell if it was hers or just a phantom, not caring either way.

And then the very ceiling shuddered, the foundation shifting with a terrible, booming groan, as Yasha ripped her restraints down on top of her. They slammed into the stone floor, sending a sharp spray of shards in every direction. Dust flew up, choking the room, shrouding her from Beau’s view.

“Y—” Beau coughed, throat raw. “Yasha!”

She crawled through the debris, cutting her palms on the rusted metal. Beau slipped through her blood and clambered over her broken chains. Beau reached out, near-blind without the storm, her fingers skidding across feathers and flesh. The sconces had long since blown out – the only light came from a faint, electric halo gathered over Yasha’s slumped head.

“Yasha, c’mon. Wake up!” Beau turned her over. Still half on her knees, Yasha’s face was slack and pale, wisps of light crawling over her skin. A massive pair of steel-grey wings drooped lifelessly over her unmoving body, shrouding her nearly completely from view.

Beau’s hands trembled as she tipped a potion down Yasha’s throat. It dribbled down her chin, half of it drooling from her open mouth. For a second nothing happened, Beau convinced that she was _dead, gone_ , _Gods please not again, not another one,_ but then Yasha coughed once and inhaled like she’d been holding her breath for her whole life.

“ _Fuck_!” Beau half-laughed, half-sobbed, pulling her into her chest. Yasha let herself be held for a few fragile moments, gasping into Beau’s sweaty shoulder. Her wings curled around them protectively, soft feathers whispering across Beau’s skin.

They still thrummed together. Beau could feel it, pressed so close, their threads vibrating with the same heartbeat. She wasn’t sure how long it would stay – or if it would ever stop. Maybe they’d never separate again, not completely. How do you tell a soul to forget?

It brought her more comfort than she cared to examine right now.

“Wow,” Yasha said at last, her voice husky-hoarse from screaming. She blinked slow, her lashes tickling Beau’s collar, goosebumps erupting over her damp flesh.

Beau snorted, wiping at her face. “Yeah, no fuckin’ kiddin’. Are you—are you okay? You like, nearly died.”

Yasha shifted, finally registering how wet she was between her legs. Beau was surprised she had enough blood left in her to blush. “I’m—yeah. I think so. Are you?”

“I…yeah. Sure.”

Beau wasn’t exactly sure how she felt anymore, but found herself not caring too much in the face of it all. Yasha’s broken chains clanked as she gripped the back of Beau’s neck, her touch near-bruising with its force, her manacles still locked to her wrists. They dragged over her collar and the rough rasp sent another bolt of arousal through Beau’s body, wrung out as she was by her surprise release.

Yasha jerked as it resonated through her. They both looked away simultaneously, Beau’s fingers flexing on Yasha’s raw back.

“We need to, um. Clean up.”

Yasha cleared her throat, looking down. “Yeah.”

Neither of them moved. Beau sunk down to sit properly, Yasha’s heavy weight on her a comfort more than a burden. “Five more minutes?”

She felt, but couldn’t see, Yasha’s smile as it spread across her chest.

“Yah, okay.”


End file.
